Paper Birds
by CapturetheFinnick
Summary: Phil gets notes in his locker in the form of haikus. Phan. Fluff.


**_A/N I tried to write this in a different style to usual and I don't know if it worked. I also wrote the haikus and I'm sorry._**

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><p><em>The bird only singson the wall as flowers weave/when your smile blossoms_

That was the first one. The paper bird flew down, it's wings crumpled, black ink scratched across its feathers. Phil caught it before it could hit the ground. His fingers curled around the edge of his locker, hooking under the end of the door as he unfolded the note. And there the words were. The handwriting cursive. The pen black and smudged but the words still shone out like stars from a night sky. Phil's lip curled slightly, his eyes casting briefly up and down the hallway. There was only the drifting dust fairies.

The pen stood firm in Phil's hand but his concentration didn't match. Out the window the clouds moved softly across the sky, like cotton buds wiping away the tears of summer. The sun started to peak from behind the clouds. Birds flew across the sky. Just spots from there. Phil knew if he had looked closer, he would have seen rich feathers, he would have seen shiny eyes that reflected the burning sun. Phil felt the cool breeze through the thin windows, tickling his skin, or stroking it.

There was a boy in the corner of his eye. And he blushed when their eyes met. But his eyes were the nicest brown. And Phil remembered that.

_Your hair is the night/that stars wish to dance upon/and I wish to touch_

It was raining when the next one arrived. The rain lashed against the window pane as if in protest. But Phil still smiled. He was locked within a thunderstorm. He wanted to throw his arms out. He wanted to feel the rain on his skin. And to feel his hair dampen against his head.

The school seemed much brighter since the notes appeared. The paper birds nested within his locker. Like bursts of confidence each morning. Bursts of mystery. Which made everything more exciting.

It was still raining on the walk home, brightly coloured umbrellas littering the streets like spilled skittles in a gutter. Phil pulled his hood tighter around his face. The pocket where his umbrella was supposed to be felt bigger now.

A slight prod. Phil turned around and there were the eyes again. Diluted by the rain, hidden by the sheet of what some would call misery, but still there, like stars on a foggy night. The boy bit his lip but held out his umbrella, gesturing for Phil to get under it.

The pair walked in silence, their identical black shoes splashing water up their identical black trousers. The umbrella shook in the boy's hand and Phil noticed him biting his lip, his eyes shifting from Phil's face and back again. The rain was too loud for speaking.

"Umm I'm here, this is me." Phil said, having to shout a little to be heard over the incessant raindrops. The boy nodded and smiled and Phil began to wonder whether he was a mute. They stood still for a moment, Phil watching as the raindrops dripped off of the boy's fringe and onto the pavement below. "What's your name?" he shouted. Thunder clapped in the background.

"Dan" the boy shouted back, thrusting his left hand into his pocket.

"Thank you, Dan." Phil said and he swore he saw a slight blush through the thick rain.

_Moons hang on your hair/Fish will swim within your eyes/Roses float on lips_

Phil was running late when the next one arrived. He barely had time to muster a smile before he had to run again.

The astroturf was uncomfortable to sit on. And the fence dug into his back. But it was better than sport.

Phil's sketchbook lay open on his knee, his pencil occasionally fluttering across the page. But most of the time he stared at the trees opposite. Or the sky. Thinking. Trying to think. To focus on happiness and expression. Art had more than one dimension.

A shadow fell over his book, the darkness stretching over the page. Dan was there. His mouth again twisted into a nervous half smile. He pulled his bag over his head and sat down with a small nod of his head, quickly pulling a book from his bag before crossing his legs. Phil noticed the distance he had left between them. And he wondered whether it was deliberate.

_Paper heart flutters/Thoughts of you rush to my head/I wish you knew me_

The next one made his breath hitch as the autumn clouds tumbled into winter. A fresh frost on the grass. Another paper bird hiding from the cold.

The entire time the notes in the locker had just been anonymous. Phil had never tried to assign a name to the scrawl, to the gentle folding of the paper. It had been like a cloud following him, the edges blurry. Phil had felt no need, no strong urge in his chest to straighten the lines, to find the hand that so delicately wrote the words and to hold it.

His smile deepened to a frown. He let his back hit the stale grey wall. Maybe he should have. '_I wish you knew me' _Phil had never even thought about the reciprocal nature of the notes- that just as it was filling him with happiness- it was filling someone else with heartbreak.

It was cold and there was crying. There were taps that only spilled ice water and swinging doors like old saloons. Scrawls ripped across the walls. Ghosts of the hands that once held a pen. A tribute to the forgotten. And Phil supposed that was where Dan always went to cry. His head hidden behind his shaking hands, the bolt slid shut. The rest of the room reeked of silence.

Phil's feet drifted towards him without really thinking, his hand knocking against the door without asking. And there was surprise in Dan's small gasp, his head shooting to the floor. His cheeks floating roses on a lake.

Phil wrapped his arms around him. Wind enveloping a hiker. Branches curling around a child. Roses growing up a wall. Dan's head lifted. Their eyes held for much too long.

_your eyes the ocean/heart of paper butterflies/feathered hair like birds _

The next time tears ran down Phil's face. Warmer than the rain. They trickled the same. A breech in biology. The paper bird reached out a wing to catch a tear on its feathers.

Shuffles of feet. Scraping of chairs. Slight chatter. A droning speech. Phil's eyes drifted to the window. The sky was grey. The gentle brushing of a paintbrush, each cloud a stroke or a dab. But then thunder would clap and it would shift. And the artist would have to start all over again.

A short performance. Phil looked for Dan in the crowd. His eyes glided over rows and rows of students held there. Under a spell. Bound by ties of fear. He wanted to see Dan. He wanted his eyes to meet his with a shy smile. He was sure it would bring sun to the sky.

But Phil could not find the eyes. He tried to picture them. Failure.

On the stage was a short part of a play. People dressed in colours so separate to the uniform that adorned people. Day in and day out. They flashed like blurs across the stage. Like streamers let off at midnight. As the clock strikes and the screams start. And Phil has no one to kiss again.

Water hung on Phil's tear duct. He had become a waterfall; his water in danger of icing over.

A recognisable flash of eyes. Dan on the stage. His expression not one of his own. Pulled from a bag. The roses gone from his cheeks but the stars placed in his eyes as he performed. And Phil's sky cleared slightly.

_a bird flew and then/there was you a silhouette/that somehow still smiled_

Phil was shaking when the next one arrived. But it wasn't cold. Phil's mouth was a desert. His tongue swollen inside until he wasn't sure if his words would ever come unstuck from the fly traps.

Dan's hands clasped over the table. His forehead wrinkled. His tongue stuck out in concentration. His pen scrawled across the page like an aeroplane across the sky. Both light and heavy at the same time.

Phil watched. His right hip digging into the doorway. His leg shook. But the clock said it was time. And so it was time. Winter was fading.

A tap on the table. Dan looked up. Roses grew on cheeks and Phil spoke. The desert replenished by a thunderstorm.

And Phil asked and Dan stayed still. And Phil's mind ran through words. And his hands wrung themselves as he thought how far it was to the nearest cliff. Programming his way there like the latest addition of google maps. Dan smiled. And it was all so obvious.

The paper birds no longer lived in Phil's locker. They flew south for the winter. Landing in Dan's own journal, migrating to whispers in Phil's ears at night. But the smiles never left. And Phil hoped they wouldn't again.

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><p><em><strong>Thank you for reading, I hope this worked kind of? idk I like it. If you would like to assure me and leave a review that would be great ! have a nice day !<strong>_


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